Questioning
by DarkHarlequin
Summary: To get at the truth, one must open one's mouth and ask in the appropriate manner.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters.**

* * *

The white-haired, bearded man made his way along a pavement, seemingly oblivious and unaware of the fact that to pay a visit to a virtual stranger at this odd hour was rare, strange, and as some would say, _fishy_. Only the homeless or those with dishonourable intentions prowled the streets at this time, though certainly no one with a pair of eyes would think of _him _as homeless.

A shabby block of apartments stood grey and dull at the end of the street. The man looked at it for a long while with an inscrutable expression on his lined face. A tiny sigh escaped him and he allowed himself in and walked up the stairs to the third level.

Presently, he arrived at the door bearing the number 3C. With a precise hand, he knocked.

After a few seconds, the door opened just a crack and a pale, suspicious face looked up at him with thin lips and narrowed eyes. With just a hint of weariness, he merely said, "My name is Albus Dumbledore."

The woman's face did not soften, but she opened the door wider (with clear reluctance) and allowed him to enter. Dumbledore was appropriately appreciative of this great honour and inclined his head in thanks.

Unsmiling, she waved him towards a threadbare sofa accompanied by a battered wooden table. Once they were both seated, the woman said, with thinly-veiled distaste, "And what is your business here?"

He stared thoughtfully at her for a long while before replying. "I believe you have received my letter, Miss Benson," he said pleasantly. "As well as read its contents in full."

Amy Benson's expression hardened. "Yes, of course. And I can hardly understand why this is necessary. I have not met him in years, I know next to nothing about him –"

Dumbledore put a hand up. To a hardened woman in her mid-thirties, under normal circumstances, that would hardly be sufficient to silence her, but this old man was most emphatically not normal. Light blue eyes behind glasses looked at her politely, but with _force_.

She stopped, uncomfortable.

"I can understand that you do not wish to speak about him." His voice was still pleasant. "But I would like you to realise that this is not an ordinary situation – most decidedly not. It would be prudent to voice out any thoughts, impressions you had about this boy, and your word would most definitely be invaluable evidence."

"Invaluable evidence?" The words left the Amy's thin lips like she thought they were poison. "I do not believe anything I have to say would be evidence. I have not seen him since I was seventeen. And even before that –" her voice tightened. She looked at him agitatedly.

Dumbledore, sensing information forthcoming, kept his silence.

"Before that…" she tried again, then stopped. Her eyes closed, then opened again. Her decision was made. "No one else is to know about this," she said fiercely. "I am telling you only because I feel that it is my responsibility to let at least one other person know before I die. It will – I will never forget it." Her voice quavered, but she stared at him steadily.

"You have my word," he promised, an inscrutable expression on the lined face.

Her hands clenched and unclenched. Her face, a hard face, was pale and she seemed to be gathering up her courage. Dumbledore waited patiently.

Finally, she let out a long sigh. In a colourless voice, she said, "This took place many years ago, in the caves at – I'm sure you know where they are by now."

He nodded.

"I was eight… Dennis was nine, and – that _boy_," she spat out the word bitterly. "He was nine. But to me, he had always seemed older, so much older than he really was. I still don't know why, but to me, at least, he lacked the – _innocence_ which appears so often in children of that age."

Dumbledore looked at her steadily. This corresponded with what he knew.

"I knew it. Billy knew it. Dennis… not so much. He was a simple boy. But he did have the unfortunate habit of talking too much." Her voice was dry. "He came, he saw and he spread the news as far as he could, that silly, foolish little boy. He never knew the value of silence."

Amy Benson's face was pale. "That boy, that foolish boy…" she whispered. "He was a fool, but then so were we all. We were children, young, silly, naïve – we had no idea what we were doing that day, going up to Riddle… Me, Billy, Dennis just tagging along. All Billy and I knew was that Riddle had been stealing from the other children, that he had been cruel. And we wanted to stop it, to show him that we _knew_…"

It was easy to picture a young Amy with two other boys, energetic, self-righteous and full of the bravery which children so often possessed. Confronting Riddle, looking at his pale face, handsome even then, looking into his dark eyes, not knowing the extent of the cruelty which lay behind the perfectly-formed exterior.

"We warned him," she said quietly. "We told him to stop it. We warned him that if he ever did anything out of line ever again, we would tell Mrs Cole." A wry smile twisted her lips. "How very stupid we were. Stupid beyond belief. Did I ever pause to ponder the consequences of my actions? Perhaps I did. But it didn't stop me, it didn't stop Billy, or Dennis…"

Dumbledore stared at her very intently, the look in his eyes unfathomable.

"And the worst part was," she continued. "He didn't even give a sign he had taken offence. He just stared at all of us with that scornful look of his and continued with what he was doing. We thought we were safe with the threat of authority behind us."

She sighed and shook her head. "Children," she said. "Are the silliest beings imaginable sometimes."

"That would depend on which aspect you're looking at, Miss Benson," said Dumbledore gently.

A laugh escaped her. "Don't start on that," she said derisively. "Please."

"My apologies."

She took a deep breath. "All right," she said in a more level tone. "All right…"

There was a pause in which neither of them were willing to speak. Then Amy looked down at her lap.

"I am sure,' she said in a contained voice. "That you know about Billy's rabbit. And you know that something happened in those caves."

"Indeed I do." There was an odd note in his voice, but Amy took no notice of it.

Her face was as hard as granite. "Billy was first. That the rabbit died was no accident; everyone knew that, and a few knew, or suspected who the perpetrator was. Then came the trip to the seaside." There was no hesitation in her voice now. It was all out, a do or die, an unburdening of something which had been kept locked inside for years.

"I don't know what possessed me to follow him that day," she said. "I would never, under normal circumstances, do such a thing. But he was so persuasive, so charming, I wanted to go with him… I had to. I obeyed, went with him and Dennis tagged along, as always. We managed to scale the rocks with surprising ease. It was almost like something was guiding me along, ensuring I did not fall."

Amy Benson spoke remorselessly. "Then we got to the cave, and it was so… _dark_." She fairly spat the word. "The only light came from the cave's mouth. And that was soon gone."

She put her head in her hands. "What came next I can never describe in full," she said tonelessly. "All I can say is that it was dark, Dennis was screaming next to me, _I_ was screaming my lungs out, and I felt those – _things_, crawling all over my skin. And Riddle was nowhere to be seen."

Her hands shook slightly. "I couldn't see anything at all," she admitted. "It was dark, everywhere. It lasted for an eternity, this awful nightmare, all my worst fears realised, horrible." She gulped in some air, trying to rein in the emotion in her voice. "I was so horribly afraid."

Dumbledore looked at her sympathetically, but said nothing. At this stage, it would be unwise to interrupt, even to interject words of comfort.

Her voice was tight. "There were the things I could not see, and those were the worst of all. The things I could see were all in my mind, and they provided scant distraction from what was happening around me - I would prefer not to go into any more detail about it," she said. "But after it ended, the light came back, Riddle walked up to me. I was on the ground, trembling. I saw his figure approach, an unsightly blot against the light. His legs were long…"

She looked back up at Dumbledore defiantly. "You do realise, Mr Dumbledore," she said. "I was quite terrified. I don't remember everything. But I do remember that after we went back, Mrs Cole knew something was wrong and started asking me and Dennis about what had happened. And I didn't dare to tell her, because of _him_…" her voice trailed away.

"I didn't want him to be further aggravated," she continued. "I refused to be tormented. And I didn't want him to know just how much he terrified me…"

There was a deep sigh which reverberated through the shabby room. Dumbledore looked at her. "My dear child," he said gently. "This is a terrible thing to happen to one so young, it is a miracle that you are telling me all this with this kind of lucidity."

Amy Benson nodded, but seemed unable to speak.

"I presume you have told no one about the whole episode?" he inquired delicately.

"No, I haven't." A chill breeze entered from the window and made her shiver. She clutched at her jacket and clenched her jaw.

"Excellent." The tone of his voice, as well as the word itself, made her look up sharply. "What?" she said warily.

He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes. "I said excellent, Amy," the old man said softly, standing up to tower over her. "Or are you still as half-witted as you once were?" A cruel note had entered his voice.

She frowned at him. "What are you talking – " her words were cut off as she gasped in horror.

The old man with the white beard and hair had vanished. In his place stood a very familiar figure, a tall, thin figure with a pale, hollow face and dark hair. He stared down at her contemptuously as he extracted a long, thin stick from his pocket.

"Riddle?" she said, aghast. "What – how, what is this?"

"Something beyond comprehension for your feeble Muggle mind, Amy," he said, a sneer curling his lip. He was not handsome any longer, though his features were much as she remembered them. But they were a little – different? She didn't know. He was even paler than before, and his skin looked unhealthily waxy.

"Muggle?" she said faintly,

He sighed. "Something you wouldn't understand, you stupid little girl." A derisive note had entered his voice. "You always were foolhardy; a silly, astoundingly half-witted little brat. It was all I could do to imitate Dumbledore's mannerisms in front of you, though I suppose it helped that you've never met him." He waved a dismissive hand. "It wasn't what I would call an entirely convincing performance, but since you probably don't even know who exactly Dumbledore is, it doesn't matter."

Her face drained of colour. "Why are you here?" she asked, though she had a feeling she knew.

His sneer became more pronounced. "Why, to find out how much you know about me, of course," he said mockingly. "As well as how much you've told the rest."

"The rest? I wouldn't tell anyone! You – how would you – " Her voice had risen with fear. "What are you?" she whispered.

"Nothing to do with you," he said disdainfully. "But perhaps it would interest you to know that Billy died two years ago, that Dennis has been _disposed of_," his lips twisted. "And Mrs Cole is long gone."

Amy slid away from him. "Why are you – disposing – "

Riddle's face expressed nothing but disgust at her obtuseness. "Well I do need to cover my tracks you know, so that Dumbledore can't find anything. It would have been easier to just force my way in and look into your mind, but I didn't feel like it and frankly, this is more _fun_."

A sadistic smile spread across his face. "You always were an idiot, Amy," he said. "Allowing a complete stranger into your house just on the basis of a letter, pouring out your deepest, darkest secret – well now, I couldn't have that, could I? Not if the real Dumbledore came around. He has a much better sympathetic manner, you know."

Amy Benson gaped up at him, her emotions a mixture of fear, incredulity and anger. "Riddle," she began.

"I go by another name now," Riddle said. "It's Voldemort."

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Voldemort? What? Wait – no, no stop it, don't –"

Riddle had raised his wand. "This is better than you deserve, Amy Benson," he said quietly, maliciously. "A quick ending."

Amy looked up at him with her face very white. "There is no pity in you," she said. "There was never any pity."

Riddle stared at her contemptuously. "Of course there isn't," he said.

Amy instinctively recognised that she was in acute danger. She threw her arms up and folded her legs close to her chest. She could hear her heart beating very fast, her breaths coming in jerky and uneven, the swish of that stick. Then –

"_Avada Kedavra."_

The body fell off the couch and slumped onto the floor.

Amy Benson was dead.

* * *

**A/N: Please review :)**


End file.
